


Red

by AngeliqueH



Series: Black shirt, red suit [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blindness, Colors, Consensual Sex, Disabled Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, James' old tattoo, M/M, Nightmares, Past Torture, War Veteran, War veteran James Bucky Barnes, alternative universe for James Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 16:56:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5709985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeliqueH/pseuds/AngeliqueH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Although colors are inaccessible to a blind man, this does not prevent him from loving or hating them...</p><p>James and Matt have been dating for the last months but both of them struggle with their own demons. After some tough nights fighting crime, Matt closes down on himself and seems to stop relying on his heightened senses, too overwhelmed by emotions. James will eventually find out why.      Part 2 of The Black Sweater.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much tracy7370 for beta reading <3

Although colors are inaccessible to a blind man, this does not prevent him from loving or hating them...

It’s been about four months since Matt and I have known each other. Most of my personal belongings are now at his apartment, but I still have my little flat where I spend a few days during the week. I usually come on nights when Matt is busy doing whatever he says he has to do to make his city a better place. Because of my military history, I understand more than anyone around him that nothing can stand between a man and his mission. On the one or two nights a week we train, we stay together at his place. Sometimes, he allows himself a third night off. I sure do appreciate those weeks when he spends more time with me instead of going out in the middle of the night, playing vigilante. Maybe things have been quieter in the neighborhood lately, or maybe he just realized that whatever he does, this city can’t be saved.

About three months ago, Matt convinced me to attend a few meetings for veterans with PTSD at the VA. My first instinct was to shout out NO in his face, but then I said maybe to please him. So, here I am now, spending part of my days at the VA. Let’s just say that one night with him can be quite convincing. At first, it was once a week, then twice, then…

At the request of Sam Wilson, one of the therapists, I now spend a few hours a day participating to the discussions. Not that I speak much but he says my presence is good for the other attendants. I also help him a little with some files. He often asks me to tell him about how things were done in Special Ops units. He knows I can’t give him any specific information but he keeps his questions open. He says it helps him to understand some of his other patients better. Bullshit. I’m one of them. I guess he’s very good at getting his patients to share.

Since I started therapy – damn I hate to say that word -- I sleep a bit better at night. I don’t have nightmares as often as I used to. Yet, they still come once in a while when I am alone in my bed. Progressively, I’ve started to accept my new life. Not ready to say that I’ve made sense of it, but Sam says it will come.

Today is one of our usual training nights. It's been a few days since Matt and I talked. I miss him, but I know better than to ask him any details about what he does when he goes out at night playing the superhero. The less I know about it, the better it is for the both of us. I realise that I used to keep all emotions bottled up but Sam says constantly that I shouldn’t. Now, at least, I try to put names on them, so yeah, I’m excited, and happy, and nervous… all at the same time. I really look forward to see him tonight. - Fuck, James, you’re becoming a softy.

"James! Phone! " I hear Sam’s voice yelling at me from his office next door.

"Bucky? How are you doing? Still works on for tonight? " Hearing Matt’s voice feels so good but I can hear he’s exhausted. His heavy breathing makes me think that the last three nights must have been horribly demanding for him.

"What would you say we skip the gym and go directly to a restaurant? Or we could just go to your place and order whatever you want and relax?” I try, unsuccessfully.

He sighs, slightly relieved, but his God damned sense of duty leaves no surprise for what he’s about to say. He’s a soldier, just like I was… Sometimes, though, I feel like I’m his mission.

"No" – he pauses. Each breath seems painful. "I'm tired, but we’ll just go easy. Sam told me exercising was good to keep your head clear. Plus, I thought that you might want to beat me up since I made you sleep on the couch last time because of your snoring." I laugh at the memory of that last shitty night at his apartment, woke up with a hell of a stiff neck. I can guess that he’s smiling too but that his sore ribs prevent him from laughing.

No need to say more. Same time, same place. I was about to hang up when I heard his voice. He asks, hesitantly:

"Hey, Bucky? Would you mind stopping by my office tonight to pick me up before we go to the gym? I showed you the other day where it is, remember? " His request takes me a little by surprise but I don’t let it show. Even though we shared parts of our lives for the last months, he knows I'm not really the type to mingle with people. Going to the VA almost every day was more than what I need as far as social interactions go. I told him the other day that I was not ready to meet his partner or his co-worker.

-Silence - I sigh-

"Okay, I'll wait for you outside, I’ll be watching the main entrance."

"Thank you.”

I do not know why he says that. Sometimes lack of sleep makes us say unnecessary things.

~ * ~

The winter sun is set when I see the door of Nelson & Murdock open from the inside. I’ve been watching from across the street from the shadow of a defective street lamp for the last twenty minutes. A blond man, overweight, followed by a tall woman come out. I hear them laughing as they walk towards the bar I spotted on my way. Two minutes later, it’s Matt’s turn to come out of the building at a much slower pace than usual. He unfolds his cane while I run across the street. I know that he already heard my footsteps so there’s no need to call out his name to let him know that I’m coming his way.

I'm just a few feet away from him but it looks like he still hasn’t noticed that I am here, which seems strange for him knowing his special abilities.

"Matt?" I say. He finally turns and faces me. There is a look of relief on his bruised face partially hidden behind his tinted glasses.

"You're a jerk, Matt! Why do I have to keep telling you that? Look at you. There is no way we are hitting the gym tonight. "

I would have expected one of his ironic replies about the fact that he didn’t bother to look at himself in a mirror this morning. This time, he does not argue. I sigh audibly to make sure he knows that I’m pissed off at him.

"I'm not your Mission Matt, I don’t need to be saved," I say louder than I should have.

Despite the discomfort of the situation, I gently take his messenger bag and start walking towards his apartment. He takes a few steps slowly; I wait for him. He sweeps the floor in front of him with his cane. "Um,” I hesitate, “do you want my arm?" I let him take a few more steps in my direction and catch his outstretched hand and guide it to my left arm. Might as well let my artificial limb be useful in some sort of way.

I realize it’s the first time he lets me guide him. Usually, I’m the one who has to catch up with him. I figured out a while ago that his cane was not really a necessity. Tonight, though, he acts differently. It seems like he relies on me more than usual. I do not ask questions about the previous days. Even though I worry about him, it doesn’t concern me. The details I need to know will be provided at the appropriate time. Compartmentalisation helps prevent secret information leaks… My military life is over and I still act as if I was in the middle of a fucking operation. Lost in my thoughts, I wake up just in time to prevent Matt hitting his shoulder into an open door at full walking speed. I’m about to make a joke about his heightened senses not being on duty tonight but I decide to keep that reflection for myself.

After a slow walk, we finally reach Matt’s apartment.

"Matt, we’re almost there and you still didn’t tell me what you want to do. Do you want to order or do you want to go to that Thaï place around the corner?”

"Do you mind if we just… If we just go home? "

Home. A rather vague concept for me after so many years spent abroad on missions. "Okay, Matt. We’ll stay home tonight" I answer softly.

He climbs up the stairs haltingly, breathing heavily.

"Matt, maybe it’s not of my damn business, but how many broken ribs did you get this time?”

"One, maybe two. I'm just,” he pauses. “I'm just tired Bucky. Do you have your keys?" He doesn’t even bother to look for his set.

I unlock and open the door. The darkness of his apartment always strikes me when I come back after a few days of absence. I wouldn’t dare to ask him to leave a light on for me, though.

His hand follows the wall as he walks towards the bathroom.

"I'll take a shower; can you order the same thing for me as last time?"

"You want me to join you?"

"Not tonight James." His answer has a cold shower effect on me. I wanted him all day but sex will have to wait. The guy deserves to be taken care of for once and sure looks like he needs some compassion.

During the half hour he spends in the shower, I pick up the bloodstained bandages lying around the coffee table. Last night seems to have been particularly harsh on him. When he finally comes out of the bathroom to go to his room, I see last night’s damages on his body. He can’t hide from my sight.

I know Matt well enough now to expect the usual «don’t worry» and the «calm down Buck» as he would normally say. He tells me that despite all my training as an elite soldier, my heartbeat still occasionally betrays me. But tonight, nothing. I watch him lay down on his bed in pain. Someone is knocking at the door. I take care of the delivery, but when I come back into the main room, I look at Matt’s bedroom and quickly understand that I’ll eat alone tonight.

Before I start eating, I get to his linen cupboard to pick a spare blanket. I cover the battered body of my friend who is already asleep. I sit beside him a moment on the side of his bed, stroking his hair with my hand. He’s breathing slowly now. He’s deeply asleep; probably for the first time in the last three days.

~ * ~

It must be nearly 4 am. Sitting in an armchair beside his bed, I watch Matt. The light that filters through the window of his room illuminates one side of his face. Sometimes I see his body stiffen. His jaw tighten, he moans once in a while. He suddenly screams and cries but without waking up. He’s having a nightmare. I look at him in dismay, heartbroken. I wonder what demons he’s fighting in his head tonight.

I go back next to him and sit on the edge of the bed, I kiss his lips gently and keep my head next to his so he can feel the warmth of my breath. His breathing seems to slow down and matches my pace. His body relaxes. I’ve been watching over the sleep of my companion for hours now. I gently lay beside him, not wanting to wake him up. My head falls onto his shoulder, cradled in his neck. I lay my arm across him, draping him. My turn of duty is complete. I fall asleep. A night without dreams, a truce in my own inner war.

~ * ~

The light in the room slowly wakes me up. A cold winter sun characteristic of the coldest days is shining outside and the contrast with the warmth of Matt’s bed is somehow reassuring. His head is now resting on my chest. His fight ended only a few hours ago when I felt his tense body relax. The rest of his night was calmer and restful.

"Hey. You're awake," he sais with his eyes still closed and a hoarse voice. It's more a fact than a question.

"Rough night?"

"I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t remember. Did I snore or something?” I cannot hear his heartbeat but I know that this punk is lying to me.

It’s Saturday morning, and we don’t have to go anywhere. We stay in bed, head and body still numbed by the fatigue of his restless night. I feel his lower body starting to move against my hip in a slow and steady rhythm. I know he’s still too sore to have sex with me. His breathing quickens, he moans gently. He whispers “James…” He turns on his back, freeing my good hand, I slide it under the waistband of his boxers and begin to stroke his cock until he comes. He exhales and I moan, aroused by my partner but I decide to stop there. I don’t want him to think he needs so reciprocate so I get up to splash some cold water in my face and get a towel for him then I go back in the bed. He puts his arm around my shoulder as I rest my head on his chest.

His delicate and curious fingers run on my back skin, lingering at the scars he meets, as if he was looking at a picture book of my old life. But I don’t mind. I like his touch. I doze off slowly. His voice wakes me up.

"I've never asked you… Do you have tattoos?" I did not expect the question, and I can’t help but laugh. I’m glad that he wants to chat more than last night.

"Yeah, I have one ..." I stop suddenly, realizing how stupid I am. He doesn’t see how my smile fades.

-Silence-

"Sorry, um - I mean - I had one."

He does not say anything. He already guessed the end of my story.

"I had one on my left arm."

"What did it look like?"

I guess going to those meetings with Sam Wilson helps after all. For the first time I manage to tell him a little bit about my lost arm. I’m still uncomfortable talking about it, but at least, I can answer his question. We call this progress, I suppose.

"It was a tribal kind of tattoo with a red star at the center." By looking at his face, I can tell that he has no idea what I’m talking about. I get out of his grasp and with one of my fingers, I make a drawing of my old tattoo on his arm.

"It was about at that height. There were black lines intermixed and in the center, there was a bright red star.” I’m not sure if mentioning the colors makes any difference for him. “But please, for God’s sake, don’t ask me any explanations why I did it or what I might have been under the influence of, when I did it!" I say, giggling at the thought of it.

He nods slowly, satisfied with my way of describing it. I’m kind of glad that I was able to joke about it but it looks like I lost him again. It takes a moment before he speaks again.

"I remember that my father had one too. I don’t know what it represented exactly. I can’t really tell what it looked like... but ... I remember," he says with a touch of melancholy in his voice.

I lay my head back on his chest and let him tangle his fingers in my hair.

I finally break the heaviness of the atmosphere:

"Here’s a few things you should know: my hair is brown, almost black, and way too long for my taste. My eyes are blue… I don’t have a tattoo anymore, and I love you, Matt Murdock."

He giggles, restrained by the pain of his ribs. His smile is undoubtedly the most beautiful smile I've ever seen.

"Keep your long hair, that's how I like it." I know right there that this is his way of saying "I love you, too".

"I told Foggy that I would take the next week off. Did you have other plans? "

“Aside being your guide dog? No.”

“You’re a jerk, James Barnes” laughing and holding his side.

“Yeah, so I’ve been told…”

~ * ~

The day unfolds slowly to the rhythm of some classic Motown music at Matt’s apartment. I still wonder what he dreamt about last night but he skillfully avoids telling me anything about it. His mind wanders someplace else from time to time but I let it be, trying to keep a lighter atmosphere. I can’t blame him for his bad mood. We all have shitty days. I am just happy to bear him company.

Most people who know about Matt’s heightened senses forget completely that he still doesn’t see like the rest of us. Today it’s much more obvious than usual. I can’t help but notice that he constantly gropes with his hands to find things, he walks along the walls, hesitantly. When he talks to me, he doesn’t try to connect with me as he usually does. He seems lost in his own darkness. I try to help him, describe things as best I can without letting him feel more limited than he is.

Still tired from having watched over my friend’s sleep last night, I decide to go to bed early. Alone in Matt’s bed, I close my eyes wishing that my own nightmare won’t come to haunt my night again. I think about that little tattoo conversation we had this morning. I’ve lost my left arm, but it’s not enough. I feel like life keeps punishing me for all the men I killed by letting me constantly relive the same episode of my life. I eventually fall asleep.

_Lying on a medical table, its cold metal against my naked skin. They have been torturing me for several days… or is it just two? I am completely vulnerable to my executioners. The straps that restrain me cut the blood flow in my arms and legs, and even if I wanted to, I couldn’t use my legs to run away. I can no longer remember how long it’s been since I was in my enemy’s hands. I don’t know how many days have passed since my last meal. They keep me alive with an IV. When I start losing consciousness or simply begin to fall asleep, they wake me up with powerful jets of ice cold water. They give me electric shocks, but not too often; they don’t want to kill me. I just want to die, but they will not give me this relief. My mind wanders under the influence of the drugs they injected in my body along the NaCl/dextrose mixture that keeps alive but, at my weakest point._

_Blackout_

_The pain brings me back. I hear voices around me; they speak Russian, but I'm not sure anymore, maybe a regional dialect. My muscles are completely paralyzed; I’m unable to move. I’m under the effect of a failed anesthesia. My brain is numbed, but I’m conscious enough to see with horror that my left hand has already been cut off. The pain is excruciating, but probably only a fraction of its actual intensity due to the cocktail of drugs they must have given me. I want to die; I have to die. With half-open eyes, I see them with a surgical saw. I hear its noise; they are preparing to amputate high above my elbow. How far will they go… I look in horror at my arm. I see my red star tattoo for the last time. They know I’m awake now. They try to ask me questions. I can’t understand what they say, my head is too messed up. My heart is pounding. I hold my breath hoping to faint, please God let me die, please, come and get me, take me away from this… I am… I…_

_Blackout_

I gasp for air as my eyes open wide. I’m choking. My heart wants to burst out of my chest. My hair is wet and my body is covered with sweat. The phantom pain of my amputated arm is barely tolerable. The darkness of the room overwhelms me. I’m having a panic attack again. “Find five things, have to find five things” The window panes, the light of the city that filters through them, the bed, Matt's room…. The apartment. "You're at home, James ... you're home ..." I repeat those words to myself again and again; I hold on to those five things to ground myself into the present. I calm down progressively. I feel my heartbeat slowing down. “Breath James, fuck, just take deep breaths...”

"Matt?” I whisper, making sure he was still sleeping.

I didn’t notice that he wasn’t in the bed. My phone says it's 2:37 pm. I must have been moving too much and woke him up. Feeling bad for him, I get up slowly, reeling. I bring a pillow with me. Maybe I’ll convince him to return to his bed; I'll take the couch.

The luminosity of the sign adjacent to Matt's apartment lightens the living room. It’s more than enough to see that he is not on the sofa like I expected. Wondering where the hell he went, I ease off when I see him sitting in the dark, at the kitchen table. I stand there watching him. I wondered all day what was going on with him, but now I know for sure that something is wrong. With his amplified senses he would have usually noticed my presence; he would have heard my erratic heartbeat in the room earlier, even detected the smell of the sweat on my body.

I see he’s working and reading a document in Braille with his fingers. During the day, his body seems to adjust to the seeing people around him, but at night, alone at his table, he does not care much where his eyes or his head are aiming while working. I walk slowly towards him in the dark. He stops and tilts his head to listen.

"Bucky?"

"Yes, it's me."

"I couldn’t sleep. I'm sorry, I must have woken you up when I banged those empty bottles with my foot over there.” He points vaguely at the living-room floor. Shit, I forgot to pick those empty beer bottles before I went to bed earlier that night.

“Nah, don’t worry. You didn’t wake me up.”

I come close by him and place my hand on one of his shoulders. He touches my arm, which is still moist.

"Are you alright, James?"

"Yeah, don’t worry. It's just a bad dream." I sounded more like I was trying to convince myself.

"You want to talk about it?"

"No."

I put my head on his shoulder near the base of his neck. The smell and the heat of his body are appeasing. I stay there for what seemed to be several minutes. I finally sit down at the table with him and watch him work in silence. I’m tempted to ask what’s going on with him - how a guy who jumps off rooftops and fights like he does can suddenly seem so disabled. Could something torment him to the point that he can’t focus on his other amplified senses? Anyway, I won’t ask. I’m too tired, and considering his bad mood today, I don’t think it’s a good time for that question.

"Matt, come on. Let's go sleep." His fingers stop reading. We get up and I guide him to the bed. He quickly falls asleep while I lay down next to him with my eyes still open, afraid that my nightmare will start all over again. I’m exhausted. He turns and puts one of his arms over me, like a shield protecting me. “I’m home” I whisper. I can fall asleep now.

~ * ~

I wake up. Judging by the sun in the apartment, it’s late morning. With his eyes closed, I cannot say whether he is awake or not. Then he turns to me and smiles. He starts caressing what remains of my arm without my prosthesis.

"The star, it was red?” He pauses. “I hate red, so it’s not a bad thing for me that you don’t have that awful tattoo anymore," he laughs softly.

"You’re full of shit, do you know that?"

"Yeah I know," he says in my ear.

He lays over me. His hard cock against mine leaves no room for doubt about what’s coming next. His delicate fingers caress my lips and easily detect my approving smile. Without saying a word, he grabs me by my hair and presses his lips against mine; he kisses me vigorously with his tongue then he bites my lips gently. He licks my neck then blows softly on it, making me shiver. He ducks his head lower, licks and kisses the curves of my chest; I moan. I grab him by the hair and push him lower, and he takes me in his mouth and sucks me greedily. Not wanting to wait another moment, I get the tube of gel left on the night table. I’ve been waiting for that for five days. He works his finger inside me then I groan loudly as he penetrates me. He fucks me slowly and gently at first then he picks up the pace, we’re both breathing hard, moving together rhythmically. He’s throbbing harder and I know he is about to climax, I’m so aroused. I reach down to stroke myself and I come not long after Matt.

~ * ~

The following days are quiet and restful. Matt works on a few cases from home while I meet Sam Wilson at the VA in the afternoons. Music, movies and books - hard to believe for the two action addicts that we are, but I’ve come to the conclusion that even Daredevil needs vacations.

On Friday morning, the day is already well started when I finish cleaning the place. I almost spilled my third coffee when I let myself fall on the couch near Matt, both still hung-over from last night at Josie’s. Matt’s been a pain in the ass since he woke up; he lost his temper once or twice when he couldn’t find what he wanted. I can tell he’s frustrated; I sure know the feeling. I tell him to cool off while I take care of the rest.

"What would you say we go to Fogwell’s tonight, let the devil out a bit? Maybe just a few easy rounds of sparring?”

"Even with one fucking arm you would still send me to the mat in less than two seconds, James,” he says with a resigned sigh. He keeps reading his book with his fingers. I swallow my pride and I talk to myself for not punching him in the face; not sure actually if it was meant to be an insult.

"Well, if anybody sees me beating the crap out of a blind man, I’ll tell them in my defense that you ripped off my arm first! Ha!” He bursts out laughing. At least, he takes the joke; it’s better than the punch.

"Sorry Buck, I..." he pauses, trying to put his thoughts together, "I'm just tired of all this shit. I just wished sometimes I didn't have those heightened senses... Each time I think I've seen the bottom of humanity, it just gets worst. I'd just like to be a regular guy for once. I feel like I just can't focus anymore these days..."

I don't know if it's a look of relief that I see in his face. Maybe he just admitted to himself that he is human after all.

“Damn, you made me lose my line…” he says, with a lighter tone.

"Hey Matt, can I ask you a question?" He stops dragging his fingers over the Braille book placed on his lap and turns his eyes at me. I take that for a yes.

"Remember, the other day in bed, you said you hated red? Do… do you remember what it was like? I mean, do you remember colors?"

He bites his lower lip and looks down. He says nothing.

"Look, I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to piss you off with that ... forget I asked..."

He nods; "Um, yes. Yes, I remember," he cuts me off. He runs one of his hand across his face and his hair before continuing.

"Unlike what people think, when you lose your eyesight, it doesn’t happen instantly. After the accident, I couldn’t see anything - no light perception at all - but still, my visual memory stayed for a while. The problem with visual memory is that it takes a lot of space in your brain. While you keep relying on what you think you remember, you pay less attention to your surroundings and to what your other senses send you. Sooner or later, you start to forget, progressively... you forget the colors... you forget the faces of the people you know…" He stops. He rubs his thumb with his fingers.

“The best way to put it, it's as if your brain wants to erase the data that it no longer uses to free up some space on the hard drive, you know, so it can store all the new information your other senses send you. Even if I try to visualize a color in my head now, it's impossible. There’s nothing... But the thing about colors is that they are not exclusively saved under the visual form; your brain makes some sort of backup and places it in a more sensorial memory… Colors eventually become emotions."

I look at him, still playing with his fingers, his eyes aiming at me. I wonder how many times he talked about this with someone. I’m not sure he ever did. Probably because most people didn’t care to ask.

He continues, more casually.

"White, for example, feels very light, almost ethereal. I remember that clouds are white. Black is the opposite. It feels heavy, also a little suffocating. But for me, it’s strong and solid, like this big black trunk my dad used to hide under his bed.”

“My favorite color is green because it reminds me of the smell of freshly cut grass, how it feels between my fingers, the pleasant warmth of the first days of spring." He takes a break. He smiles, closes his eyes and tilt his head. I guess he’s thinking about this green grass right now.

"I hate yellow; I don’t know what it did to me, but I hate it.” He laughs gently. “Maybe the guy I saved before getting hit by that truck had a yellow coat or something. I don’t know." I didn’t see him smile like this for the last couple of days. Maybe it was a good thing, after all, to ask him the question.

“What about blue?”

“Well, you said your eyes were blue right? So I guess I like blue now.”

“You better!”

His laugh feels good. I get up to get us something to drink. “You still didn’t tell me why you hate red, though. What did it do to you?”

From the kitchen, I couldn’t see his smile fading slowly. When I come back with bottles of water, I find him serious again, still biting on his lower lip and looking down, lost in his thoughts. He finally says:

"Actually, red was my favorite color when I was a kid. We weren’t rich, but every year my father had to buy me a new pack of colored markers just because my red one didn’t work anymore after using it too many times. I loved drawing my dad with some red boxing gloves, red robe, and red shorts. My dad would get crazy about it because back in that time, his fight clothing was yellow. I would keep trying to convince him to wear red, saying that it would show less if he was bleeding.” He pauses. “He was a boxer ... my dad. Battlin' Jack Murdock ... " he says that with the pride of a child speaking of his father as a superhero.

He rubs his eyes a short moment. "After I lost my sight, my father wanted, even more, to make sure that I use my head rather than my fists. To pay my tuition, he fought match after match. One night, he came back home with a package. He opened it and put what was inside in my hands so I could touch it. A new robe and new shorts for his next fight against Creel. He said he wanted them to be red for his last one. The most beautiful and rich red he had ever seen. The fabric was the softest thing my fingers had ever touched in my life. He promised me that it was going to be his last fight and that he was going to give me his robe after that - that I could do whatever I wanted with it." He rubs his thumb against his fingers like he often does. Now that I know that for him, colors have a texture, I understand that he must be remembering how that red robe felt, picturing it in his mind, his own way.

"So, the night he won against Creel, I remember hugging him, still full of sweat, in the locker room. I made sure to remind him of his promise to give me his red robe. He told me to go back home and wait for him. He said he would be back in an hour. He told me that he would need to wash the robe before he gave it to me but I was so excited; I left and rushed back home without even hugging him..."

His voice breaks and his eyes fill up with tears.

"We lived right next door to where the match took place. About an hour later, I heard gunshots. I knew they were for my father. I ran back to him, but when I knelt beside his dead body, I sought his hand and I felt the satin fabric of his red robe still in his closed fist. But this time, instead of touching the softest fabric I knew, all I felt was his warm blood and probably some brain matter on my hands. I still remember the copper smell of his blood combined to the cordite smell of gunpowder in the air."

This image reminds me of so many dead men I came across in my own past. If red refers to that emotion, I might start to hate red as much as he does. In a choked voice, he finishes his story.

"You asked me why I hated red? Because since that night, all it reminds me is my dad’s warm blood on my fingers; the taste of copper in my mouth; the smell of cordite of the gunpowder. The only emotions that come with it are pain, hate, and anger. It makes me want to hurt as much as I can the bastards who ruin other people’s life… just like they hurt me when they took my father’s life.”

His eyes are shut; his face racked with sadness. I kneel in front of him and catch his hand that was searching for his glasses on the coffee table. I reach behind his head and bring his forehead against mine, letting him know that I’m here for him. I wipe his tears with my good hand and as I embrace him, I hear him sobbing helplessly over my shoulder.

Without letting him go, I look up. For the first time, I notice the poster on the wall in front of me. I didn’t pay attention to it before, thinking it was one of those random posters with a vintage look you get in those home design stores.

\--- Battlin' Jack Murdock Vs Creel. ---

I look at the date at the bottom. It all make sense to me now. No wonder why Matt was so sad in those last days, giving up upon all his fights.

Many years have passed since Battlin’ Jack Murdock fought his last fight, since he died, and since Matt’s memory of red changed forever. Many years. Twenty-five years tomorrow, to be exact.

~ * ~

A few days have passed since that night. I stayed at Matt’s apartment a little longer than usual. Tonight, while I’m in the bed, I hear him going up the stairs to get to the roof with his red suit on. Some bastards will meet with the Devil tonight.


End file.
